Good poems torment me much,
Bad ones - are nice without reason:
They can't sting souls, nor they bite,
They have the warmth of home, isn't that?
So - that's a real lemonad, of course,
(They're light, as a silk morning gown) .
And qeniuse ones takes minute to concern, oh...
The grey verses hold evening whole.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem